Wallflower
by Moody Peach
Summary: Molly, a deceased woman, and a moment of clarity. — Molly, Sherlock.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_.  
><span>Notes<span>: There are themes surrounding sexual assault and victim-blaming. You have been warned.

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In sixth form Molly was deemed "Mo Mo" by friends and "suitors" alike, although she personally considered the name to be quite gaudy – in both pronunciation and overall vibe.

"I'm a _serious_ person," she once lamented pitifully to her best friend, Cheryl, while the two young women flicked through Polaroids haphazardly scattered across Molly's bed. "I've wasted loads of time studying just to be called _Mo Mo_?" Incredulous, she flopped on her back, fingers splayed across her stomach.

Cheryl had giggled sheepishly. "_I_ like it. It's cute."

"_Cute_?" Molly scowled deeply, her eyes trained upon the chipped lavender paint on the ceiling. "I don't want to be _cute_..."

By the time she began attending uni, Molly had wholly embraced "Mo Mo." That is, she peeled off her scrunchy, thus freeing her silky mane of chestnut brown locks, and shook off the awkward weight of her adolescence – waltzing into class with floral perfume and fashionable attire even Chanel would tip her hat to. She had come to recognize the attention men delivered, as well as her own sexual appetite upon spending a weekend on holiday with Cheryl and her rowdy mates, and she had – initially – intended to further play with the dynamics of opposite sex friendships.

However, her mother – this was before Dad's cancer, a moment in Molly's memories when her mother had a smile to offer – once playfully asked, "Getting to know any boys?" The question itself, although harmless, was a fair source of anxiety for Molly, who had enrolled into demanding courses in which a wide array of scientific experiments, theories, and studies were explored.

Ah, boys – _men_.

Many of her classes were predominantly occupied by male peers, and they habitually alternated between harassing her with lewd comments and leery grins, and mocking the level of intelligence she presented in scores and presentations – which was, frankly, above and beyond _theirs_. "You're pretty smart, Mo Mo," a man named Edwin once remarked while she worked with a microscope, his rancid breath caressing her cheek. "And pretty... _pretty_."

"They're harassing you because they're intimidated," Cheryl had explained in a matter-of-fact tone as they strolled through London during a crisp Sunday afternoon, their fingers curled around ice cream cones. "Just smile back – show them how cool you are. It's just their way of being friendly. I mean, I don't know _why_ you're so worked up? You're hard to miss."

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"_Why would she brazenly meet this man while possessing complete knowledge of his history?" Sherlock, frowning, peers more closely at the woman's ID photo; his thumb traces the lamented surface._

_Molly swallows the bile in her throat before asking meekly, "How do you mean?"_

"What?"

_It apparent he's been exchanging words with himself rather than her, and yet she pursues the topic. "What does it matter if she knew he was a, ah... _bad_ man?"_

_Sherlock quips an eyebrow, clearly bored by her comment. "This woman was _murdered_, Molly. She met this dangerous man for a reason, and I highly doubt it pertains to mere ignorance on her part. She desired something and she bet against her life for it."_

"_Not ignorance..." She stares at her hands – at the dry white flecks patterning her skin. "It's just... You don't know what you're talking about sometimes, Sherlock."_

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When she was twenty-one, her first boyfriend became the center of her universe. He smiled with one side of his mouth, showered her in rich discussions about politics, art, poetry, and so forth, and remained a warm presence in her stressful life – Cheryl had moved to France for academic (as well as recreational) reasons, Dad had been diagnosed with cancer, Mom was a wreck, and Molly herself was carefully balancing her education, social life, and her work. The chaotic design of her days were tempered solely by her boyfriend's charm and cool smile.

_Devon_ was a sociable fellow. Neatly-pressed button-up, collared shirts. Expensive cologne clinging to his tight body. Often purchased a round of drinks for their mutual pals, and ritually bestowed her with glittering trinkets and honey-sweet compliments and the utmost attention.

"You're a sweetheart, Mo Mo," he would purr, and a ribbon of ice slither down her fishbone-spine in response. "You're beautiful and intelligent and sexy as hell." She'd squeak happily when he'd pinch her bottom.

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"_I presume you hold the answers?"_

_Molly heaves a sigh. "I'm just saying... She probably met him because she missed him."_

"_He raped repeatedly during the course of their affair, humiliated her in the presence of her friends for the sheer 'humor' of it, and threatened _her_ with a restraining order upon receiving her inquiries as to whether or not he would 'be less of a coward and leave her alone forever.' Please do tell, what is it she missed about this particular man?"_

"_I..."  
><em>

"You_, yes."_

"_No, it's nothing..."_

"_Clearly."_

* * *

><p>Devon had promised her a candlelit dinner with an expensive bottle of Chardonnay.<p>

Promises, promises.

"Don't tell anyone," Cheryl advised on the phone, whispering as if Devon – who was visiting family in Wales – would catch Molly spilling out her secret. "Molly, just keep quiet. Ignore him. Are you sure he wasn't just drunk? Or high? You told me about the crack – "

"That was _once_," Molly exclaimed, her bottom lip trembling. "And he was sober. What does alcohol have to do with it anyway?"

"Were _you_ drunk?"

"No!" Molly cried, bemused. "I was, ah... We were just going to have dinner, maybe a bit of wine, but he was acting funny... Said he heard about me and some man named Isaac."

"Who's Isaac?"

Molly, now twiddling with the cord of her phone, anxiously says, "I don't _know_, Cheryl. We didn't get to eat or drink or anything. He just... went _mad_. Proper mad. He was yelling, crying, called me awful names, and then..." Her stomach churned and her eyes brimmed with tears as she recalled the deranged gleam of his cold gaze as he worked with her blouse; the concentrated effort of muffling her strangled protests while his hands groped painfully at her breasts...

"Have you spoken to him since? When was this again?"

"Three days ago. I haven't called or anything."

Cheryl sighed deeply, seemingly frustrated. "Well, why do you think he acted like that?"

"I, um... I don't know. He told me repeatedly I 'deserved it.' He said I'm too beautiful. He said, '_All the guys flirt with you all the time. What the hell is that about?_'"

"They _do_ flirt with you. It's because you're attractive."

Molly hadn't replied, so Cheryl added, "He's a prat, Molly. What he did was _unspeakable_. But I don't think he meant it maliciously... Maybe he was drunk? Maybe some _trollop_ told him lies about you and Isaac-What's-His-Face? Maybe his parents are ill, or – "

"My father has _cancer_, Cheryl!" Molly interrupted, utterly gutted by her best friend's remarks. "But even I would never be so... so _horrible_ to anybody! Not like this..."

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"_The message she sent him... She probably changed her mind and wanted to see him again."_

"_Or she wanted an object from him, or perhaps his silence on a valuable subject or secret or matter between them. He's a powerful man. Corrupt, gluttonous, and all too concerned about his appearance."_

"_She loved him."_

_"Seemingly everybody's first mistake, and their greatest of disadvantages."_

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"What are you wearing? It's ghastly."

Molly, drumming her fingers across her thigh, quickly assessed her outfit: a frumpy Cosby sweater, loose-fitting jeans, and a gaudy plastic ring with a reddish-brown ruby embedded into the silver. "I, uh, was in a hurry."

"Oh, I'm sorry for the short notice," Molly's mother said, waving her hand absentmindedly at her daughter's comment. "It's just your father's been in the hospital for a week and a half now, and I need help cleaning the house. In fact this my first time stepping foot in here since _Thursday_, sweetheart. Errands, the hospital, my own mother's been ill – "

"It's alright, Mum," Molly interjected, offering a halfhearted smile, "I don't have any plans for the holiday."

"None at all?" Mum cocked her head, and the younger woman shamefully realized her mistake. "Strange. Isn't Cheryl down for holiday? And what about your fellow, Devon – "

"He's away. And Cheryl and I sort of..."

Mum's raised her eyebrows. "Are you two having a spat? Is it... over Devon?"

"Oh, God no," Molly laughed, albeit without warmth, and explained, "We've been busy and we haven't really had time for pints or chats." Truthfully they hadn't spoken since their roaring row two weeks prior, in which she had effectively exiled Cheryl from her life upon discovering how open she had been about discussing Molly's "boyfriend troubles" with her French mates, whom dubbed Molly a "Drama Queen."

"And so it goes," Mum mused, her fingers playing with the brooch attached to her blouse. "So how are you and Devon?"

Molly rose from her chair, pretending to have forgotten an important call.

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_Molly slides a blood slide away from the table so as to rest her hand on the edge. Gazing aimlessly into the glossy black surface, she muses aloud, "He definitely hurt her. She was probably terribly gutted about their affair... And everything he did. But she missed the moments when he loved her, and she thought she could secure this by obtaining his undivided attention."_

"_Ah..." Sherlock, pausing, places the ID upon the table and stares evenly at her for a moment before saying, "Tell me more about your... theory."_

_Her cheeks flush scarlet, but she manages to compose her speech while stating, "She was co-dependent. He abused her to take away her power, and then dangle it in front of her to remind her of this. He was horrid, but she was attached."_

"_Misinterpreting attachment as love, thus resulting her unfortunate demise."_

_Molly's ears burn. "It wasn't her fault, really."_

"_I know."_

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Molly had discarded her old wardrobe upon receiving an internship, and hurriedly scrambled for a proper batch of fabric of which she could remain dutifully devoted to her work while remaining unassuming – a mere blot in the background of work and socialization.

"What's your name again?" a co-worker dazedly asked as they sorted through files, to which she gave him a quiet answer and a small smile.

_He looked like all those boys in uni... More tired, though._

She was once walking down 5th when she momentarily caught a glimpse of Cheryl. Her former friend merely bowed her head and continued onward, arms wrapped around herself and her long coat, and Molly mirrored the action – even though her face was hot with embarrassment.

_She probably didn't recognize me._

During a drunk stupor she rang Devon, pleading with him while also trading insults. "I loved you," she whined into the phone, bottom lip quivering. "You're a prick. Why didn't you talk to me afterward? Why didn't you apologize?"

"Jesus, what do you want?" he demanded, repulsed.

"Can't we just talk?" She stifled a giggle, but was unaware of the humor in their situation. "Or s-something?"

"Oh, sod off, whore."

He had hung up abruptly, and she spent the night with a seven glasses of wine, a pounding headache, and a splatter of vomit on her bedroom carpet.

_At least he answered this time._

On a rainy morning she had stumbled upon her father rummaging noisily through a box. Shakily he retrieved a photograph, and although he was unaware of her presence, she easily memorized the way the corner of his lips twitched; a downcast expression had ironed itself onto his worn and gaunt face.

_He's sad. But he's always joking when he's with us._

She remembered meeting Sherlock Holmes. It was Sunday, and a Jane Doe had arrived at the morgue. Stepping into the room, she was startled to find a tall, dark stranger – ripped right from the pages of dark romantic literature – hovering over the pale woman, his eyes narrowed every so slightly.

"Who are you?" she had asked, abashed and yet utterly intrigued.

He hadn't answered, hadn't even spoke, and hadn't paid her any mind, and suddenly she was dreaming about the atmosphere he provided. Neither cold nor warm, it wasn't particularly human, and yet it sang melody in her heart.

Most people say something but mean nothing.

It's all a fabrication.

He said nothing and meant nothing.

It was honest.

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"_I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock says, displaying a tone she knows to be sincere and serious all the same, and she's suddenly on the verge of reeling from astonishment._

"_Why?"_

"_You are not ignorant. In fact you are a _good_ woman. Only a _truly_ good man deserves you."_

_He swiftly kisses her cheek before collecting the deceased woman's items and sauntering from the room, and Molly finds herself contemplating the quintessential aspects of her curious life, its quiet mannerisms, and a man named Sherlock Holmes. _


End file.
